August 8.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so
severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I
did not think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment.
But in fact you are right. I only suggest one objection. In this
world one is seldom reduced to make a selection between two
alternatives. There are as many varieties of conduct and opinion
as there are turns of feature between an aquiline nose and a flat
one.

Your position is this, I hear you say: “Either you have hopes of
obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case,
pursue your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes.
In the second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which
will enervate and destroy you.” My dear friend, this is well and
easily said.

But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting
under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the
stroke of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his
strength deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance?

You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy, “Who
would not prefer the amputation of an arm to the periling of life
by doubt and procrastination!” But I know not if I am right, and
let us leave these comparisons.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake
it all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from
this place.

THE SAME EVENING.

My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me
today; and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled
myself step by step. To have seen my position so clearly, and
yet to have acted so like a child! Even still I behold the
result plainly, and yet have no thought of acting with greater
prudence.